I am real. I have mass and energy. I breathe. My heart beats. I live in a 90-year-old farm house in the mountains of North Carolina.
My job, since January 2010, exists only in your imagination. I produce unique combinations of 1s and 0s for your amusement. A bolt of lightning or an electrical hiccup or a nasty virus could annihilate The Organization for which I work.
There are over 3,000 people working for The Organization, although no one is quite sure of the numbers. Many of the workers have multiple identities and work pseudonymously—refusing to admit to their real names. Many of the workers have left but the bosses do not remove them from the rolls.
After being the subject of speculation for months, Boss Daddy left. We knew he was going, but no one would tell us. Everything is a secret. An “accident” revealed his departure. A well planned accident.
There is an outside accounting firm through which we are paid. I could easily quit my job with no financial loss, since my earnings have been kept a secret and I am unable to access that information. I don’t know where the money goes, if there is any. The accountants are accountable to no one.
There are many supervisors. The supervisors masquerade as workers. They hide behind false names to ridicule the workers and to steal from them. The rules are changed weekly. I am not paranoid. I compartmentalize; I like my work and want to continue doing it, so I avoid contact with the supervisors and ghosts, although some is inevitable.
This story is true.